


so slide back down and close your eyes

by lq_traintracks (lumosed_quill)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blow Jobs, Cross-Generation Relationship, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, POV Harry Potter, POV Second Person, one bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:41:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25677502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumosed_quill/pseuds/lq_traintracks
Summary: When the magic goes out at Harry’s place, and no one can get home, and it’s cold as a witch’s tit outside… well, what else are you going to do?
Relationships: Teddy Lupin/Harry Potter
Comments: 37
Kudos: 252





	so slide back down and close your eyes

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Firewhiskey Fic's Summer 2020 edition, for the prompts: Neville Longbottom, Grimmauld Place, "There's only one bed", and Blocked Floo. This is the cleaned up version (but be that as it may, it might still have a few errors; my apologies). If you'd like to read the drunk funny one with all the authorial asides, it's here: https://firewhiskeyfic.dreamwidth.org/39955.html Without all the drunkenness it's now more angsty/smutty. ;) The title is from the song by The Cure, 'Burn'.
> 
> Also, a note on the summary: Belatedly and sober, I realized the faux pas in ‘witch’s tit’, being that I’m writing for HP. *facepalm* Sorry about that, literally every woman in this fictional world! :P
> 
> Also also! Teddy's not underage for the UK in this; he's 17. But I wanted to err on the side of caution! Mind the warning, please.

It happens the night the magic goes out. Well, at first it’s a normal evening. You’ve got friends over, between Christmas and New Year’s in that weird time that’s no time at all. It’s unbelievably cold outside. Some kind of… polar vortex problem they’ve said? You’re not really sure. You just know the wind is like ice itself, licking inside even the warmest of clothes. Everybody’s got their warming charms on high, even with Grimmauld’s magicks running nonstop.

Everything’s fine at first. You’ve got all your best mates: Hermione and Ron, Luna, Seamus and Dean, Neville, Cho and her date (some bloke from Slytherin three years ahead of her; Clive? Clause? You’re unsure), Katie, Susan. And Teddy. He’s seventeen, so you figure it’s okay, though everyone else is twice his age. You like that he’s here. You like watching him mingle with your friends. He’s rather good at it. Better than you are, really. Thank Merlin they’re already your friends or you’d never have the balls to actually talk to any of them.

The wind howls outside, but Seamus’s laughter drowns it out, and everything feels warm and safe and calm and lovely. You’ve maybe had enough Firewhiskeys. You smile at something Katie’s saying, give a nod of agreement; it’s Quidditch, and your views of various teams often align, so you feel confident nodding even though you’ve stopped actually listening. You’d feel guilty about that, but fuck, Katie’s on a tear, and she’s really enjoying her rant, so she seems happy with your level of engagement, which is to say you’re not entirely necessary.

You lift your glass to your lips, about a finger of whisky left to sip on, and you watch Teddy smile at something Neville’s saying across the room. 

Neville’s looking awfully fit, you realise with a small frown. Sort of stupidly fit. The kind of fit that’s impossible to shrug off. Anybody would notice it. And Teddy is laughing now, full-bodied, eyes crinkled. He touches Neville on the arm. Your frown deepens.

“Do you not agree, Harry, that the Falcons are shit, they’re _shit_ this season!”

“Mmm, yes.”

“Oh, just that you’re…” She gestures to your bunched forehead, and you stammer out a, “Oh yeah, well, that’s just how shit they are,” indicating your forehead creases as evidence.

“Yes, quite,” she says and then launches into a new tirade.

You hadn’t really noticed but Teddy’s hair has gotten darker as he gets older. No longer turquoise it’s sort of… cobalt? Is that the colour? Yes, a sort of dark, dreamy blue, a shade more electric than sapphire. It’s sort of… lovely. 

At that moment, Teddy looks away from Neville, still laughing a bit, and he catches your eye. His smile lingers, and you feel your frown melting away, a soft return smile replacing it. You lift your glass a little and spare him a small wink, which is something Sirius used to do with you and you only realise it once you’ve done it yourself. Teddy blushes and then turns his attention back to Neville, whose story, much like Katie’s, has continued despite his audience’s brief loss of attention.

The Wirelss is on, playing at a volume that’s way too low to do the guitars justice, but even that is sort of nice. Everything’s nice when you’re not fighting for your life, and dying.

In hindsight, Cho and her boyfriend were lucky they left when they did. Them and Susan who Floo’d out on their heels with a ‘I have to work tomorrow’. You could never abide a Healer’s schedule. It happens while you’re staring at Teddy sipping his red currant rum, the way the cherry-ripe liqueur stains his full lips and he licks them, nodding at stupid fit Neville again. Teddy is seriously barking up the wrong tree with that one, you think. Neville is boringly straight. Teddy’s flirting isn’t likely to get him anywhere. Which, then, you realise that that’s indeed what Teddy’s doing. You’ve never been a big flirt. You never really learned how and, rather embarassingly, you never needed to. You can look across a pub at someone, and that’s usually all it takes.They come over, and they flirt with your fame rather than you. You don’t have to do… all that. But it’s because you’ve been flirted with (a lot) that you recognise that that’s what Teddy’s doing. With Neville. And it’s not that you hadn’t considered Teddy might be into blokes, but it’s a different thing entirely to see it, to watch it, to have the proof of it, projected onto your mate who you’re frowning at again.

And that’s when it bloody happens.

The magic goes out.

“What the—” says Ron.

“Oh, fuck,” says Seamus.

These are both good and accurate sentiments.

“Okay, so yeah,” you begin. A natural leader, obviously. “This hasn’t actually happened in about ten years.”

“What exactly _has_ happened?” Hermione asks.

“Yeah,” you say. “The magic’s gone out.”

And because only Hermione among them grew up thinking they were a Muggle, the majority of them freak out a bit.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” you say, hands out to stave off panic. There’s still light in the room, but only that provided by candles. “Seriously, it’s alright.” Though they probably already feel the disconnect between themselves and their wands; you know you do, and it can be utterly discombobulating. “Look, it’s just the bloody house. It may last a few minutes, or…”

“Or what,” Dean says, his arm around an already dramatically shivering Seamus.

“Or, you know… days?”

“Bloody hell,” says Katie.

“I mean, it’s not a problem,” Neville offers. “We can just Floo home a little early.”

“Yeah, that’s the thing,” you tell him, scratching your head. “You’re not going anywhere.”

It very quickly goes from a party to a hostage situation. Okay, maybe not that bad. More like a sleep-over nobody planned on attending. They ought to be glad you were raised an underfed Muggle because you come prepared. You bring down sleeping bags, blankets like mad, pillows pillows pillows. And you explain that, hey, the Floo might not get them home, but it’s the only real hope of heat they have, and you’re prepared for that too.

Teddy helps you bring the firewood in from its place under the eaves of the house. The wind is positively blistering, but even though your wand is inoperable, the wandless magic you know seems to be working at half power, and you at least protect the two of you from frostbite as you lug armfuls of logs into the house.

“Hey,” Teddy says when he sees you looking probably way too dour and pragmatic about the whole thing. You stop and let yourself look at him, into his kind and forgiving and… wow, beautiful really… eyes. “It’ll be alright.”

You cup his cold cheek in your hand. “Thank you for helping.”

He smiles. “Always.”

It’s decided that you’ll all have to sleep in pairs. Ron and Hermione in a sleeping bag are a no-brainer. Dean and Seamus take a cramped spoon on a small sofa. Luna and Katie burrow beneath the fluffiest blanket near the now-roaring fire. 

The big sofa, the farthest from the warmth of the hearth, is a Muggle pull-out, because yes, you’re weird. But as you pointed out before, weird and bloody prepared.

“Teddy and I can share that,” you find yourself saying. It is not because you’ve realised it’s you or Neville at this point. No. It’s just… you’re his godfather. It’s only proper. Neville can bed down with… well, the remaining armchair and ottoman, most likely. He’ll be closer to the only remaining heat source, you rationalise. And you can keep Teddy warm with your half-banked wandless, you reckon.

Teddy doesn’t object. Neither does anyone else. The fire’s now popping, the blaze of orange throwing shadows, and there’s a plan for whoever wakes in the middle of the night to build it up again. You say your goodnights as everyone settles in.

“Alright?” you check as Teddy sheds his shoes and crawls beneath the musty covers. It’s severely cold in this corner of the living room, and he shivers as he draws the blanket up under his chin.

“Well?” he asks, because you have not yet joined him.

Belatedly, shoeless, you crawl in.

Muffled conversation across the room, the soft whisper of Dean to Seamus and the comfortable murmur in reply. Hermione is already falling asleep—it _is_ half past one in the morning—and Ron strokes her hair off her face, pulling the cover up to her ears.

“C’mere,” you shiver out, too cold to wonder if propriety matters at this point.

He readily scooches into your side. “Like this?” he checks, a breath. 

“Mm,” you grunt, his arm thrown across your chest.

You sigh, staring at the ceiling for a few moments before closing your eyes.

His voice, when it interrupts the quiet, is soft, and he speaks into your shoulder. “I heard the best way to stay warm is body heat.”

When you hesitate, you feel him shift. He strips off his own shirt, baring himself from the waist up.

“Yeah,” you agree in a superlatively dazed fashion. And he helps you… when you start to take your own shirt off.

Then he snuggles back into your side, making little humming sounds, his hand on your chest, cheek nestled there, his leg thrown over yours, knee nudging between.

And he’s right: It is warmer this way.

The night is a deep, dark emptiness. You were sleeping so soundly. The only reason you wake is…

Oh God.

Teddy’s hand has drifted down your body, down your stomach. It toys with the hair there, low on your belly. His gentle breaths ghost hot over your neck. Then his fingers find the button on your jeans, and before you know it…

“Teddy…” you whisper, panicked but exceedingly quiet.

Zipper pulled down, with enough time that you could easily stop him. He nestles his face into the crook of your neck. “Please,” he says.

And then his hand wraps around your cock.

You weren’t really aware you were half hard. You only know you felt… good. Really fucking good. He’s making little thrusts into your hip, and you realise he’s like a ramrod, so bloody stiff. So seventeen and easy and _hard_ for anything. Except it’s not for anything. 

It’s for you.

“Harry…” he half whispers, half whines.

He pulls on your dick. Slowly, sweetly, like he knows how to handle one. You’re immediately furious. Irrationally, ludicrously furious.

You shoot your hand beneath the covers and stop him. “We can’t,” you say. Fuck, for so many reasons. But what you tell him is, “We’re not alone.”

And he whispers to you, against your ear, breath hot and currant-sweet, “I can be quiet, I promise.”

Then before you can protest—and would you have? God, in what world would you be good enough to resist this?—he ducks under the covers and aims your cock into his mouth.

Gasping is not exactly what you do. It’s too soft for that, too afraid of calling attention. But your neck arches, and your mouth opens, and though it’s silent it’s no less agonising for it. Because your godson is going down on you. And it’s automatic… the mournful surrender he coaxes from you.

Merciful fuck, _nothing_ has ever felt so good.

“Harry? Alright?” It’s Neville.

Your hand goes into Teddy’s hair, stilling him on your dick, probably painfully.

“Mmyeah,” you manage, cock resting just inside his lips. His tongue _moves_... just a little, just once.

“I just wanted to check,” says Neville, “while I was awake. Thought I’d get the fire going strong again. It’s so very cold. Where’s Teddy?”

“He’s…” Fuck, so hard not to just gasp every word. “He’s seeing to… a need.”

Merlin, what a wanker you are. You think you feel the breath of what would have been a chuckle down there.

“Oh, yes,” Neville says. “I hope the loo’s not too cold then.”

“Goodnight,” you tell him, hand tangled in cobalt strands, tightening in warning.

“Night,” Neville says. Then he takes ages messing with the hearth before he beds down again.

Teddy comes up for air once it’s safe. His cheeks are pink, lips swollen. 

“Damn,” you say, and you mean it in the sense that you never should have done it, that though your cock is aching to come and dying for his mouth, it never should have fucking happened in the first place.

But Teddy nestles into your body again, and he hums sweetly. He says, “Your chest is so warm,” and there’s no greater yearning he could light in you, you think. He’s… too precious to be real, too dirty to be allowed. He’s fire itself in the bed.

“We can’t,” you whisper to him.

But he presses his dick to your leg and, slowly, moves against you. He makes small noises against your chest, needy little things. You’re lost at the sound. You wrap your arms around him, your overwhelming desire to keep him safe, keep him warm, even though he seems determined to get himself off against you.

“Shh,” you caution, checking the room and seeing that it is still, that everyone is asleep. 

If only you were as well.

“Take your trousers down,” you tell him. It almost sounds menacing, the way it comes out of you. Your desire for him that dark, that strong.

He makes a mewling sound, like his every want is to be overpowered by you, to be _under_ you. He shimmies his jeans and pants down, and you roll him onto his back beneath you.

You take one look behind yourself at the room once more, checking. God, you’re a monster. Who else would succumb to this? Yet it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. He matters. Teddy, parting his thighs as much as he’s able and looking up at you like you hold the secrets of sex in the palm of your hand… like this is everything he’s ever wanted.

You don’t want to think about what look is in your own eyes—as you start to thrust. 

Your cock against his, sliding hot against each other. A jolt travels your body at the immediate friction, the improper intimacy of it. He bites his lip, and your hips work slowly, your gaze holding his, tighter than tight.

You don’t like to think about how long you may have wanted this. It’s been the rare fantasy, so forbidden that you quell it at first sight. But how long have you been strangling it to death? Two years maybe.

 _Demon_ , you think. Bloody Christ.

And yet you hold him. You _hold_ him. Under you, he shivers. He looks at you like one does a galaxy through a telescope. It’s an unearned adoration. Something that shatters inside you even as it fills his eyes. You gather him up, body to body. You pin him with your stare, and you thrust between his legs.

“Har-ry,” he quakes out. You check behind yourself again, make sure there’s no audience aghast. You turn your attention back to him, his hands soft on your back, his breaths coming short. You speed up, just a little, just enough.

He almost looks afraid of it… the arousal, the impending orgasm you’re going to lay waste to him with. Fuck, he’s going to look so beautiful, coming for you.

“Quiet now,” you warn him in a soft murmur. Your lips descend to meet his even as they open in rapture. He accepts your kiss because he has no other choice. He orgasms, trembling, hands turning to blunt nails sinking into your skin, and his lips part to you, his moan muffled on your tongue.

His cock creams between you, hot and sticky and beyond his ability to control it. You watch him still, through it, your lashes lowering as you fixate on the surrender of his mouth. You slide your hard cock through the wet mess, against his young, hard body, your hand stroking down his side, his hip, grasping his leg as his climax shudders slowly to a close.

He makes another soft sound, reaching between your bodies for your dick. But you still his hand. You shake your head. “Honey, no,” you say. You can’t possibly let him bring you off. Not like this. Not tonight. Maybe not ever. Though you know how unlikely you are to hold out after this.

It’s still so fucking cold, even with the fire roaring behind the grate. He’s panting quietly beneath you, and the sweat he’s worked up will chill him to the bone if you’re not careful.

“Turn over,” you say.

He tries for another kiss, his neck arched guilelessly. You grant it, more tender now, the desire laced with the shame of what you’ve done to him. But you let his tongue touch yours… his ache for you like a bloom aching for sun.

He turns in your arms, and you help him pull up his trousers, casting as serviceable a cleaning charm as you can manage over you both. You pull up your own jeans, though you’re still so goddamned hard. You let yourself enjoy the sweet pressure of squeezing up against his arse from behind. He wiggles back into it, shameless and lovely.

You wrap your arms around him, holding him close, your nose nestling in his nape. 

He sighs on his way back to sleep. “I love you,” he says.

And fuck but you can’t not say it back. It’s true after all. It’s just also complicated. “I love you too.”

It’s a mistake, all of it. In a line of other mistakes that make up your entire life. There’s no way to regret it completely. Not when he draws your arm across his body and presses your palm to his beating heart. There is no regretting that.

And you can say that’s all it is, when the light filters through the room in the morning, when your friends rouse to wake. You can say you held him to keep him warm. If they wake to find you tangled up together, you have all the reason in the bloody world.

You just have, inside of you, even more.


End file.
